


Alemoot

by Bladespeaker



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alemoot (Guild Wars 2), Hoelbrak, Norn (Guild Wars 2), Sylvari (Guild Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bladespeaker/pseuds/Bladespeaker
Summary: Sylfia Wylcaller's earlier adventures led her to Hoelbrak, one of the first cities outside the Grove that she visited.  The young sylvari stumbles upon an event that changes her life from that point forward -- the legendary norn celebration of Alemoot!





	Alemoot

The balmy air of the Grove seemed little more than a memory as the warrior braced herself and dragged her steel-shod feet across the asura gate’s whirling magic to the threshold of the Shiverpeak Mountains. She shivered at the whirling eddies of snow that tickled her face, wincing as one or two drifted into the still-oozing wounds that glared golden sap in the harsh light of the northern air. The bandages that covered her body beneath her armor chafed slightly, but the alternative was worse.  
For most of her kind, the sylvari’s birth process was painless, bringing them into the world without the bloody struggle for life that the animal races endured.  
Hers was the only exception. The hissing crackle of a torch made the sapling’s heart leap into her throat, reminding her of the moment when she emerged from her pod and stepped from the safe cocoon of the Dream. In the blazing chaos that turned her first memories from waking curiosity to screams of agony, few seemed to have answers. Some blamed the Inquest and a stray firebomb. Others declared that there must have been an accident, that someone must have tipped over a brazier of coals or magic fire while walking above the waking chamber. Yet she had heard the chilling rumors that the fire had been no accident, and that whoever had planned it was fortunate to have only injured one sapling.  
She glared at the fire and turned away. Everyone else was very fortunate indeed. She was the only one who had to live with the burning pain. Her birth had been like the humans’ – a struggle of blood and death that nearly sent her reeling back into the Dream of Dreams without even seeing her first full day. She couldn’t stand being in the Grove any longer – the smells of lush plant-life and the chatter of other sylvari reminded her too much of that fateful noon and of the blaze that had engulfed her. What better place to flee old memories than the complete opposite – the sparse, frozen tundra of the Shiverpeak Mountains?  
Her tongue stuck in her throat. Adventures would have to come later. For now, she needed a drink.

Fortunately for her, the sylvari quickly discovered that the giants who inhabited the mountains – norn, they were called – were more than willing and able to supply drinks. In fact, there seemed to be a large festival going on in one of their tavern halls. Her eyes hurt from staring up at the ceiling beams. Even for the norn, this seemed excessive. The buildings that they wrought made even their giant size seem like ants, which did not help her own self-consciousness about her own height. Though she was tall for her kind, among the mountain-dwellers, she may as well have been an asura. She somehow wrangled herself into a barstool whose seat went just above her waistline and hunched over the pockmarked, dull wood.  
“Water,” she croaked. She grimaced under her helm’s shadow. Her voice still sounded like the fire, all cracks and snaps, rough. The burly norn at the bar only barely paused polishing the stein in his hands, leaning on an elbow and raising a bushy brow at her.  
“I’m sorry,” he rumbled, peering in confusion at the shadows on her face. “I could’ve sworn that I just heard you ask for water. This is a bar, tree,” he continued. “If you want water, just go to the streams and… I don’t know, stick your toes in them? Or however you plant-folk drink.”  
“Oi drink same as you, barman,” she said. Her eyes were still healing, bleeding her pupils into her irises and making everything a hazy green. “With my mouth.”  
“Hrmm,” he grunted, unenthused. “Well, you look like you’ve run into Bear herself, but you carry yourself like you’re fresh from the Grove.” The smile that crinkled his eyes was not unkind. “Come on, this is your first time in Hoelbrak, isn’t it? You’ve got to try an ale. Otherwise, you’re only experiencing the half of it.”  
Her head started to pound. The smells of meat-smoke and grease and unwashed warriors was making her nauseous. “Will it help with the… atmosphere?” She cleared her throat and winced. The bartender threw his head back and laughed.  
“Atmosphere? You mean the aura of warriors and victory! Yeah, it’ll help.” His braids swung over his shoulder as he turned back to the towering kegs and lowered the freshly-cleaned mug to a spigot. With a couple of turns, he realeased a golden stream of brew into it and slid it down the table. The warrior barely caught it in time, swearing under her breath as it smacked into her palms. “Now,” the barkeep said, swaying to the tune of a battle-song, “whose name should I keep this under, hm? Don’t worry, that one’s free of charge.” He winked. The warrior raised the heavy mug to her lips and paused.  
“Sylfia,” she said. “Sylfia Wyldcaller’s the name.”  
“Wyldcaller! That’s a good one. What do you think of the ale, Wyldcaller?”  
She gave a pull at the mug, throat bobbing as the cold drink filled her mouth and tumbled down her throat. The barkeep’s eyes widened.  
“Hang on, warrior, slow down,” he chuckled. “You’ve got to come up for air sometime!”  
She held up a hand and continued to drain the mug. Worry creased the norn’s brow.  
“Are… are you sure you’re all right in there? That mug’s as big as your head, and I know how you sylvari sometimes have a hard time holding your drinks.”  
Sylfia’s mug remained stubbornly raised. Concern turned to confusion and then awe. The barkeep waved over a coworker, who lumbered over. Her own scarred face underwent his same emotions as Sylfia finally lowered her mug and set it firmly on the scarred wood.  
“Not bad,” she said. She smacked her lips, squinting halfway at the ceiling. “Notes of honey, amber, wild hops, a bit of pine… and is that a rabbit foot?”  
The second bartender glowered at Sylfia’s server. “I thought I told you to stop putting those in there, Skartji.”  
“They’re lucky!” he protested. “But did you see how fast she drank that?”  
“Yeah.” The norn woman leaned down and squinted at Sylfia. “You sure that’s your first ale?”  
“Very first.” Sylfia vainly stifled a belch. “Not bad aftertaste, either,” she mused.  
The barkeep turned to her coworker, brows raised. “Get her another.”

“Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!”  
Sylfia plunked down her most recent stein – something called Bear’s Best or something? It had hints of berry – and raised her arms triumphantly. The pair of workers had quickly grown from two or three onlookers to at least half the bar. Some of the other warriors who had come to visit soon raised a challenge to the sylvari to see who would outdrink who first. So far, Loser # 4 was slumped on the floor, moaning incoherently. Amazingly, Sylfia found that she no longer felt as much pain as she had before she started drinking.  
“Are these my fingers?” She squinted at her hand; the armored gauntlet and bandages below had been stripped away and rested on the bar. “Mine are green, I think, or sommat like it.” She smiled drunkenly and raised her newest stein to her lips. “Oi, cheers, you big brute,” she said good-naturedly. Potential Competitor # 5 stared at her with reverential horror.  
“This is incredible,” he said, wild yellow mane glowing dully in the smoky light. “How many has she had?”  
Skartji and the other barkeep – his older sister, it turned out – beamed. “Twenty-four. What you’re seeing is number twenty-five.”  
“Wolf’s teeth,” the ranger swore.  
“You up for a match or not?” Sylfia sniffed. “Oi’ve already drunk the lot of those folks under the table, so…” She pursed her lips with exaggerated flare and drained the last of her current mug. Her veins glowed a ruddy orange in the dim light as she set the empty vessel down. She tipped it over and shook it, pouting as a sad dribble of brown ale spattered onto the sticky bar. Instead of sitting across from her, the norn in front of her stood and raised his mug.  
“Friends, kinsman, fellow hunters,” he bellowed. Sylfia winced. “What you have seen today has never been witnessed by anyone before, nor have we seen anything like it among one who is not norn.” He grabbed her arm and steadied her. She blinked blearily at the assembly and waved uncertainly. “This sylvari, this… What was your name again?”  
“Wyldcaller.” She hiccoughed.  
“Sylfia Wylcaller has managed to drink enough today that, if she had them, her ancestors would be proud. As it is, fellow drinkers and warriors, it seems only fitting that on this day, the very first of our Alemoot, we should bestow upon her one of our greatest honors!”  
“More ale?” Sylfia offered, beaming hopefully. The ranger laughed.  
“Of course, more ale! But to my brothers and sisters of the Shiverpeaks, let it be known that from this day forward, Sylfia shall no longer be known among us as mere sylvari.”  
“Oi’m not?”  
He ignored her and raised her hand in his. “Today, she is reborn in ale and kinship – no longer a stranger to our kind, but instead born of flesh and blood as we of the North! Behold your new sister on this day of celebration! The honorary norn, Sylfia Wyldcaller!”  
The resounding cheer shook even the towering rafters. The sylvari felt as though every fiber of her body was thrumming with its sound – and her head felt likely to explode. Pride, pain, and confusion blurred in a happy haze. She raised her mug and grinned, teetering slightly.  
“Happy Alemoot,” she cheered. “An’ may your mugs never run dry!”


End file.
